Chaos Theory
by Missy Jade
Summary: [AU] Change one thing, change everything and, in the end, the one person Claire wants to save the most will be the one she needs saving from.... [PeterClaire, Ensemble]
1. Teaser

_Title: Chaos Theory  
Series rating: R  
Pairings: Peter/Claire  
Characters: Seriously? Think, um, clowns in a clown car, okay?  
Timeline: Begins during "Fallout," and continues through the first season through fourteen installments (AU) and will include throwbacks to "It Takes a Village," and, to a greater extent, "War Buddies."  
Teaser: Change one thing, change everything - in the end, the one person Claire wants to save the most will be the one she needs saving from..._

-

_Notes: Written because, while I can handle Claire as a Petrelli, not even incest can scare me from a ship, I want to stab Meredith in her blank-eyed stare, because, um, yeah, most pathetic waste of a character, ever, seriously. She came in brilliantly and then, boom, gone, and while I want to care about her, all I actually want to do is poke her in the eye. Just, very much the only thing in the whole show that turned me off it, seriously – I love all the characters (Peter, Claire, Mr. Bennet, and Niki/Jessica especially), and while some of the writing's a bit off at times, this entire story grew in my skull beginning in the third episode. By the time we got to episode nine, I was outlining, and I'm writing it now – fourteen parts, a single OC to set in motion the AU, and a whole lot of characters that I get to play with. I found that it also, as I fell into seizures after watching "Distractions," changes the whole incest thing, since, you guessed it, Claire's not a Petrelli. That said, there will be massive Petrelli and Claire interaction and not only on the Peter/Claire side of things, although that will be an increasingly heavy part of it all, not surprisingly – they're at the root of everything that goes on here, even if they don't realize it. You'll also notice a good amount of Angela, because she is also made of awesome, like Peter and Claire and, yes, Niki/Jessica if they had actually fleshed both sides of her out a bit more emotionally. Parts get bigger as they move along, but you'll see what I'm talking about soon. Some scenes will be lifted from the episodes, but that'll become less and less frequent. I'm also playing with the stupidity of the mysteriously aged and de-aged Claire – she'll be sixteen, when we start, and we'll be fleshing it out further down the road._


	2. Beneath

_Title: Beneath (Chaos Theory 1/14)  
Rating: PG-13 (language)  
Beta: **gidgetzb** and d**reamingwriter** - they make me look good, seriously, and any mistakes here are completely mine!  
Pairing: Peter/Claire (building up the connection), and a few minor others  
Characters: Dude, seriously, think clowns in a clown car, okay?  
Timeline: Begins during 'Fallout,' continues through; includes dialogue from the episode - AU as of "Fallout"  
Disclaimer: Nope, not mine. _

Notes: I'd highly recommend anyone reading this quickly pop over and read the notes, which can be found here , ;)

Teaser: Beneath everything, there's always a foundation.  


* * *

**Manhattan, New York – Seven Months Ago**

_Her old friend (he wasn't even a friend, but it sounded better than acquaintance) still liked his Scotch on the rocks. _

She sat and waited as patiently as she could, watching him slowly enjoy his drink, watching his self-control crumble bit by bit every heartbeat. She'd seen a lot in her life and knew, even if she had never gotten a straight answer, that he had seen even more. He wasn't aging well, not as well as she was, but then she had friends in high places who were able to help with that.

They were all old, she had come to realize slowly, but they were still who they were.

"You lower your head any deeper into that Scotch and you're going to drown yourself."

"Wouldn't be such a bad thing," he chuckled and although he nodded as if the thought wasn't a bad one, he finished off the last of his drink and dropped the glass back with a snort. "You're Gwen this week, right?"

"Actually, this week it's Kath."

"That doesn't suit you."

"That's kind of the point."

He gave her a look then, a sharp but seemingly innocent glance that she knew was anything but. He knew things, she had realized early on, had long weeks when he would know everything and have every answer and other weeks, the bad weeks— "I get the feeling that you know why I called you tonight?"

He didn't say anything, and Kath smiled, offered him her own untouched Scotch on the rocks.

"Of course I know," he murmured a long moment later, and took the silent gift.

"You know a lot of things."

The hand gripping the glass trembled just the barest bit as he started nursing this drink, fingers tightening almost imperceptibly around the tumbler, and she noticed it the same way she picked up on the slightest flicker of one eyelid as he shook his head and shrugged. "I just pay attention," he explained, and it wasn't even a good attempt at a lie. "I can't help you," he said flatly, and she smiled as well as she could, a jerk of movement as her lips twisted.

"Yes, you can."

"I'm not involved in this."

"You are if I can give you something you want."

He shuddered and drained that glass as well, dropping it rather roughly to the table top and jerking his chin, a silent demand for more. The drinks were on her tonight, as usual during these little meetings, and she obeyed the order, not speaking until he had another drink in front of him. "I can do it, I can give you what you want," she whispered, and watched the tiny reaction he gave— the jerk of his head and the flicker of desperation in his eyes.

"You can't change the future, Kath."

"You've done it."

"No, I…" and he shook his head, making a face. "I've changed what I was supposed to change, but that's all…"

"So you admit it?"

He didn't say anything for a long time and she held herself back by sheer force of will, bit the inside of her cheek and counted to ten over and over again. "I think you figured out what I can do a long time ago," he finally whispered, so quietly she almost couldn't hear him. "You've never been a stupid girl, and I've never seen you as one, right, Kath?"

"I like to think we've always understood each other," she admitted, and he smiled and nodded and went back to his booze. "We have, so…" He fell quiet again, and it took everything she had to keep breathing, knowing this was important, how he reacted now, what he might do. Kath wasn't gifted at manipulating people, not on the whole, but he wanted to believe her, wanted to put this on her shoulders.

It was the only thing she had, right now.

"I've tried to change the future before and it never works—"

"You can't know that—"

"All I've ever done is made things worse."

She stared at him for a moment, unnerved at the tone, at the way he stared right through her and at something only he could see. He had his secrets, she knew, same as they all did, so she kept her mouth shut and her smile light, encouraging. And his eyes finally focused on her again, sharpened and deepened and she knew she had him.

"Tell me where she is," the blonde woman murmured and the strength in her voice made him hesitate, lick his lips and swallow shakily. "Tell me where she is," she whispered more firmly, a hint of an order in her tone, and curled fingers around his wrist, holding him tight, "and I can give you what you really want."

"I don't know where she is, not completely…"

"Tell me," and she smiled again, making it reach her eyes. "Just give me some idea, and I can go from there." 

-

**Odessa, Texas – Present**

Mr. Bennet remembered, all too clearly, the night he first held Claire, first promised her that he would love her until the world ended. It was a promise more important to him than his wedding vows, and more sincere than even his love for Lyle, however harsh that might sound if ever put out into words. To love her and to protect her, even if it might one day mean he had to hurt her to keep her safe.

Protecting her, whether it be from teenage boys who looked down her blouse or psychopaths who wanted her power, had been the constant in his life from the second he'd first lifted her out of that plastic bassinet and held her close. He still had the shirt he'd worn that day, tucked into the back of his closet, and it still had the large drool stain from where she'd first dozed off with her head on his shoulder, tiny noises soothing him better than anything he'd ever experienced before in his life.

She'd been so tiny then, so small he had been able to wrap his palms around her middle and feel his fingers touch, and he glanced at her again as he drove, fingers just a little bit too tight around the steering wheel as he struggled to work out what he needed to do to solve all of this. She was still small, or at least on the smaller side, and she was indestructible but—

But Claire could still be hurt in ways that would hollow her out until there was nothing left of her, could still be used in ways that would destroy her long before that impossibly durable body wore out.

Mr. Bennet looked at her more carefully, took her in with that now-familiar shudder in his heart at the blood that had dried into her hair and across her face. She was staring out her window, wide-eyed and calm-faced, and he remembered that smile she'd had on her face the first weekend he watched her without any help at all from Sandra. She'd settled in his lap and peered up at him and grinned like the cat that ate the canary, like she'd won the lottery.

He turned his attention back to the road, uneasily aware of how… _brittle_ he felt at the moment.

It was by accident that he looked up just as another car's headlights flashed across her face in a way that made him jerk the smallest bit in recognition, knowing that look of worried attention even though he had only seen it a few times. He had seen Claire make that face before, when she was extremely focused on something, but it made him freeze up now, if only for a fragile heartbeat.

Claire had never been covered in dried blood when she'd made it before.

It took just a second before the light was off Claire's face and she was in shadow again, but it had done its damage, shaken him enough that he struggled not to glance at her again, remembering eyes that glittered like green glass and a tiny smile that was anything but. Claire had the basic looks, but the resemblance wasn't entirely impressive, not really, something he had always been quietly grateful for. She had the same coloring, blonde hair and green eyes and the same look of focus when she was truly determined, but it had always been the differences that Mr. Bennet had forced himself to see.

The last glance he gave her before he pulled into the drive, all he saw was Claire, no sign of her mother to be found.

Blood or not, Claire was his child and she hadn't _wanted_ Claire.

She hadn't wanted Claire— but _he_ had.

-

_Peter was aware of the fact that, even though everything hurt, he seemed to be okay. _

He had died (he wasn't sure, had no proof, but it felt like he had died) but he was okay.

Even so, he felt a swift jerk of relief when he lifted his head from the bed and spotted his big brother, looking gracefully disheveled in a way that only Nathan Petrelli could pull off. "Nathan. What are you—what are you doing here?"

"You get in trouble; I drop everything and fix it. Isn't that how things work?"

His brother cared, so Peter savored it for a moment, focused on it even as he felt the annoyance flicker inside him, remembering a destroyed painting and that girl, that cheerleader, the one he wouldn't have been able to save if it wasn't for Simone. "Get you out of here soon," Nathan sighed, his eyes steady with that familiar mix of protectiveness and exhaustion and Peter exhaled softly against it, quietly, lowering his eyes to study his hands in his lap.

Holding anything against Nathan hurt.

Even so, even knowing that— "What, no lecture?"

It was petty, and he felt bad about it, but he couldn't help it.

But the little twinge of guilt got worse when his brother immediately came to him, moved forward to hug him tightly for a heartbeat. "I'm just glad you're alive, man," and Peter knew he was one of the only people in the world to know that tired quality in his brother's voice. When he raised his head, his brother was pulling away, peering down at him carefully, dark eyes heavy.

Everything hurt, especially his head, so he greedily took the distraction that Nathan offered, even if it was paltry.

"Why did you destroy that painting? Why did you try and keep me from coming here?"

Yes, petty— but his head hurt.

"The painting showed you dead, Peter. And when I got the phone call, I nearly believed it for a minute." The guilty twinge in his heart deepened in intensity as he picked up on the faint strain in his brother's voice, and he frowned, knowing he was losing his anger and trying to hold onto it childishly.

"Yeah, I thought I'd be the hero."

"Yeah, heh... How'd that work out for you?"

"Save the cheerleader, save the world," and Peter desperately wished for aspirin to help ease the quiet, vicious throbbing within his skull. It wouldn't completely help, he was sure, but it would probably help take the edge off, keep the little spots of light from exploding behind his eyes when he moved too fast.

When his brother seemed to pick up on it, moved forward and eased down beside him, a comfortable weight against his side, Peter sighed again, letting out a long breath. His brother was annoying but he was there, he had come to get him and take him home, and—

What had he been so annoyed about anyway?

"You're meant to do a lot of things, Peter. Saving the world isn't one of them. You gotta learn to recognize when life is bigger than you are. You're not a fighter. But that's okay. The world needs nurses too."

The tone of the last words made Peter grimace despite his best attempts not to, remembering a gift of shoes, the barest sting the gift had caused in the deepest part of his heart.

"When I'm around you, I can do what you can do. Isaac, Hiro Nakamura, this girl Claire. See, I think that we're all the same somehow and this bomb that Isaac painted, I think we're supposed to stop it. But I just… I don't think I can do it."

"That's because you can't."

Tired, in pain, Peter turned away, feeling Nathan tighten a palm reassuringly around his shoulder, an older brother trying to enforce an unhappy truth.

When his brother finally spoke however, it was quiet and calm and wrong in ways that Nathan's had never been— and it wasn't Nathan, something he realized as the fingers in his shoulder twisted in painfully. "How can you stop what's coming?"

Frightened as he had been when he was five and had lost sight of Nathan in the mall, heart exploding in his chest, he snapped his head around, took in dark eyes that were wrong and an oddly strong face and that stupid baseball cap that Peter remembered from just a few hours before. "When you don't know anything about power?" 

—and Peter jerked out of his nightmare, bolting up and flinging himself back, eyes snapping up to find someone standing outside his cell. It took another moment, another heartbeat to calm down, but he finally did, jerking in several breaths as he took in long blonde hair and a slight worried frown as she peered at him through the glass. Unnerved, childishly grateful not to be alone, he awkwardly tugged the bloody shirt on his frame and watched as she let herself in, never looking away from him. "You're Peter Petrelli?"

Um— "Yes," and he wasn't quite sure what else to say to the comment, heart still thundering in his chest.

"Good, just the boy I was looking for." She looked pleased at that, nodding to herself as she held out a hand, waiting. It felt odd, the way she was smiling at him, but after the last week or two he'd had, an odd smile wasn't too much to worry about. And his head still hurt, made his eyes ache as it only got worse. "I'm Tracy," she added, as he cautiously shook her hand, found the grip firm but not painful. Unnerved, shaken, he clung to her hand an extra moment or two, struggling to erase the nightmare. "You can call me Trace, if you'd like."

"Do you…"

"I'm a friend of your mother's, happened to be in town so she asked me to swing by and check on you."

Well, that explained why she looked familiar; his mother had dozens of "friends," peers in her social circle that she found useful when she needed something. Those same people, he had learned early in life, found her equally useful when they needed something. It seemed to work well enough for her, so he had finally stopped fretting about it, however difficult it had been. "Just a friend?"

"I'm a friend of the lawyer variety, Peter."

"Oh" and he was once again not sure what else to say, not with the pressure in his skull that kept building.

She looked, he decided, a bit like someone's young grandmother, not as old as his mother but probably closer than someone would guess, long hair blonde and swept back from her face, bright eyes a smoky green. "Just wanted to make sure you weren't getting yourself into trouble before your brother could get here," she continued, easing herself down to sit beside him and, to his quiet amusement, kick off her flats. "I hate those things," she explained, rolling one over with her toes. "I used to wear stilettos when I was a girl, but I can't pull it off anymore. Flats are the best I can do, and even these kick my ass."

"They're not healthy," he mumbled half-heartedly as he reached up to press a palm against his face, trying to ease the pressure filling the entire area there. "There are all kinds of studies on it…" What was that noise, that rattling? It sounded like someone was shaking something, and he thought of locker doors flying at him, forcing him to grit his teeth and try to breathe, finding it entirely too hard just to do that.

"Peter?"

Fingers curled into his wrist, and he looked up again, found her staring at him hard, eyes glittering at him like glass in the sunlight, like the buildings in New York when he'd fallen to the street below. "Are you okay?" and before he could answer, she pressed the back of one hand against his forehead, pinched look on her face. "Have you eaten anything?"

"I'm not hungry."

"Right," she said, and he swallowed, closing his eyes at the thought of food, at what it did to his stomach. He'd felt out of it before, but then he'd fallen five stories and if he was right, then he had died, so, why wouldn't he feel off? This was different, though, a sudden knot in his middle that left him dizzy, gripping the cot under him out of fear of toppling off. "Have you actually slept any since they brought you in, Peter?"

Peter thought of his nightmare, remembrance of it making his hands shake slightly, and managed to nod, regretting it when it only made the room spin more viciously. "Sit up," she snapped, voice sounding like thunder suddenly, standing and coming in front of him, "sit up and put your head between your knees, breathe a bit, don't try to talk." It sounded like good advice, the nurse in him insisted, so he obeyed, tightening his fingers around the cot, trying to do what she said.

He felt her palm on his head, but he ignored it, struggled to get his muscles to loosen up to allow him to breathe more easily. It took another few minutes, minutes he spent tight and tense and shaking, but he was finally able to fill his lungs, deciding as he gulped it in that air was the most wonderful thing to ever exist in the world. "I'm okay," he mumbled, and felt her settle beside him again. He didn't raise his head, though, not wanting another dizzy spell like that.

"I heard that you fell five stories, Peter."

"I got lucky," he muttered, and stared down at the floor, edgy.

"Is that all?"

It was an odd tone, felt heavy almost, and he glanced up slowly, found her staring at him with a flat gaze and a cool expression. "That's all," he exhaled, and she smiled, arching one eyebrow and quirking her lips into something that looked a bit like a smug smile, something that left him uneasy and restless, wanting to move but not daring to. "I suppose Claire Bennet got lucky, too, Peter?"

"Yes," and he shut his mouth, deciding that he wouldn't say anything else, not to that look on her face.

For a long horrible moment, she just stared at him, as if trying to frighten him into speaking. And then, abruptly, as if a switch had been flipped, the quirk of her lips finally curved into a full grin, bearing white teeth. The grin made her eyes glitter as she stood and slid her feet into her shoes, stretching slightly. "I'll call your mother, tell her you're fine and assure her that they aren't starving you into some kind of false confession."

"Thanks…" He wasn't quite sure what to say, so he went quiet again, watched silently as she slipped out of the cell and gave a little wave before she turned and strode away, melting away into the controlled chaos of the station. It left him alone again, but he didn't care this time, not with his head throbbing and his skin feeling chilled. He lay back down and pulled the pillow over his head to block out the light, intent on staying calm until Nathan got there.

And wondering whether he'd actually managed to save the cheerleader—

No, Claire, her name was _Claire_.

-

The blonde woman had left Angela Petrelli a message on her cell phone two hours before, just as she came into the jail. It was as she was leaning against a wall and considering the surprising little twist that Peter had caused that her phone beeped at her with a surprisingly intimidating tone. No doubt in her mind who it was, she flipped it open and checked the number, grinning at being right.

Like always, there were few formalities, which the blonde woman was grateful for— she had always hated the formalities around her more than anything else. "You have nothing to do with this," Angela blurted out instantly, and the familiar chilly strength in the voice would have cut anyone else, any sane person, off at the knees.

But the blonde woman wasn't anyone else, and her sanity was at times a subject of discussion among her peers.

"Your son seems to be fine, although I think he's a bit overloaded at the moment."

"What are you talking about?" Angela sounded confused enough, but the anger was there beneath it, a quiet frustration of being forced to deal with something she didn't want to deal with.

"Don't treat me like an idiot, Angela, not when I know you best." The amusement was gone from her voice now, left it sharp and dry and chilly, and while most people wouldn't have picked up on it, Angela had never been "most people," not by far. And yet, out of everyone the blonde woman had dealt with in her life, Angela had always been the most difficult to grasp, understand.

"I thought you said you liked Paris."

"I do, but I have work to do here."

"Stalking my son?"

"I was just checking on him, that was all. Friends take care of their friends' children, right, Angela?"

"He's no business of yours—"

"Did you know that he fell five stories, walked away fine?"

"Don't be ridiculous."

It was almost a good tone, almost a good lie but the blonde woman knew better. "I guess now we know what Claire can do, don't we?" And there was a pause, filled with something that the blonde woman didn't miss in the slightest, couldn't have if she'd wanted to. "But then," she started slowly, "I have no doubt you already knew what Claire could do, right, Angela?"

"I have no idea what you're talking about—"

"I'll stay here and keep an eye on him until you come to pick him up," and the blonde woman snapped the phone shut without another thought, shutting it off and tucking it away as she flexed her feet in her flats. She had a good place where she was, able to keep an eye on everything going on in the police station, and she glanced again towards the cells, toward the little box where Peter Petrelli was tossing and turning in his bloody shirt.

Despite herself, she remembered Angela's youngest the few times she had gone to New York.

He'd always followed her around like a puppy despite his brother's instructions to stop it, sucking his thumb as he kept shoving that damn raggedy stuffed bear of his into her arms. She had always hated children but he had been particularly irritating, like a gnat that refused to be killed. He'd been out of diapers then, but not for long and that must have been at least twenty years ago.

And here he was, all grown up and apparently just as irritating.

-

This, at least, Mr. Bennet could control.

Claire seemed to be okay, seemed to be recovering well enough, which he was grateful for.

A life lived with fear, even if she was indestructible, was no life at all, especially not for someone like Claire.

Besides, he was frightened enough for her for the both of them.

"You understand what I said?"

"I got it the fiftieth time," she sighed, and she sounded so much like the aggrieved sixteen-year old she was that he was forced to smirk slightly, squeezing a shoulder as he guided them between the cars and up the steps into the police station.

He had always been good at lying but Claire, it seemed, had none of her mother's natural talent at twisting the truth.

The previous hours spent at home had been amusing despite his attempts to take them seriously, watching his daughter flush slightly as she tried to repeat the lies he had come up with, most of them just warped versions of the truth. The way her lips had quirked as he stared at her hard, the nervous way her fingers fluttered across the dinner table— he shouldn't have found them so entertaining, not when they would make it harder to protect her, but they had amused him.

He remembered all the days she had sneaked cookies out of the cookie jar, the way she tried to lie but couldn't.

Claire wasn't gifted at this, something he was privately grateful for, but she'd be able to pull it off.

"Just follow what we planned, and everything will be fine."

"I know," she said again, and gave him the 'why are you treating me like an idiot when I'm smarter than you?' look.

Mr. Bennet was well-acquainted with that look.

He dropped a hand on her back when he saw her suddenly tense, saw her swallow and hesitate at the sight of the officer coming at her, and felt her relax the smallest bit in response, felt the worst of the tension ease. Twisting fast in front of her, he bent to press a quick kiss against her forehead and add a last encouraging whisper of "Just remember what I told you." before pulling away and allowing the female officer to grab up Claire's hand in a quick shake.

"We're very glad to see you," Audrey Hanson smiled, and almost sounded sincere as she proceeded to lead them through the halls of the station.

There were worse people to be involved in the case, Mr. Bennet had decided, and besides, he had someone at his back that could handle the telepath.

When they finally reached the correct room, the blonde officer inclined her head and stepped back, allowing Claire to step into the room first, smiling slightly, reassuringly. "Just a few questions," she stated, and glanced at him sideways, a quick look that promptly sized him up and dismissed as something she didn't need to worry about. "You'll be able to take your daughter home soon," she added, and he nodded pleasantly.

Mr. Bennet had handled bigger messes than this in his life.

Holding his next breath for an extra moment, steadying himself, he finally stepped into the room and then arched his neck, intending to watch Audrey Hanson follow after.

All he actually saw, however, was the other blonde.

He took her in completely in the single second he had before Audrey Hanson closed the door behind them, took in every aspect of the blonde woman that stood and stared at him with a broad smile. Took in long blonde hair and glittering eyes and a smile that wasn't a smile, and he took in the way she stared at him, an unnerving look that left him floundering, scrambling for a foundation that was suddenly washed away.

It only lasted for a second before the door closed and she was gone, but it had done its damage.

In a space of a single second, sixteen years wrenched awkwardly, shifted and twisted, and his heart followed, a shudder in his chest that knocked the breath from his body before he regained his control.

"Daddy…?"

And he dropped his gaze to find his daughter gazing up at him from behind the table, green eyes worried and lips quirked into a frown. It was just Claire, just her, and he pushed the other woman away, shoved her back and focused on Claire instead, his Claire—

But his hands still shook as he took his seat and watched his daughter lie.

-

A few hours after that guy who looked like that guy on _Alias_ had seemingly read his mind, Peter started hacking up his other lung.

It wasn't enjoyable.

The guard, finally unnerved, had brought him a bag of cough drops— while they didn't completely erase the problem, they certainly helped, allowing him to lay back and try to get some sleep.

Keyword being "try" he found.

Every time he closed his eyes, things flickered in his head, splashes of color and echoes of voices, something that tasted like Scotch flooding his mouth, a cacophony of sensations that made any kind of rest impossible. He finally did what he had done before, pulled his pillow over his head and focused on breathing, something that had never been this painful before.

If he had been completely himself, he would have realized how badly he actually felt, would have realized just how bad a shape he was in. He had always been good at that, telling when somebody wasn't as healthy as they should be, and it was something that had always amused and irritated his mother, his constant insistence at playing the mother hen of the family—

"He looks like he's asleep, Claire—"

Peter sat up so fast that he nearly gave all three of the people standing at the foot of his cot a stroke, watching the tall man with the glasses grab the cheerleader and pull her back protectively, such a sudden movement that Peter froze with the quiet instinct of a small prey animal, holding up his hands cautiously, startled and not sure why. "I'm awake," he managed quickly, hoarsely, and saw, even with the big man standing between them, the way the blonde perked up at the words.

A second later, her head popped into view, a small but brilliant smile greeting him.

Breathing, _alive_— because he had _saved_ her— "You're okay."

"Thanks to you," she smiled but all he could do was grin stupidly back, jaw beginning to ache slightly.

"Mr. Petrelli, I'm Claire's father."

"Hi," he managed as he very carefully took the big man's offered hand, found it heavily calloused but okay.

"You saved my little girl. I owe you my life."

"I was just in the right place."

Which, of course, wasn't a _lie_, exactly…

"Maybe one day I'll be in the right place and can return the favor."

Claire's father had a slightly unnerving stare, Peter decided, a slight hardness beneath his eyes that Peter couldn't completely wrap his mind around. There was something about his glasses, a small part of his brain insisted desperately, something to do with Nathan, but the harder he tried to figure it out, the more his brain hurt.

"Are you feeling all right?"

"Yeah, fine…" and he nodded even though it made his brain slosh around in his skull in a horrible way.

"Hey, Dad, can you wait outside?"

Peter, hazy-minded and dizzy, was grateful for the request, closed his eyes and eased down onto his cot again. He just needed to get balanced, he decided, and pressed palms against his face, aware of both father and daughter staring at him worriedly. Finally, he heard her father agree, heard his footsteps fade and the door open and close, heard the lock engage.

"Are you okay?"

He forced his head up, found her staring at him with green eyes that glittered with a nervous kind of worry.

"Fine," he whispered slowly, and then hesitated at her disbelieving look, at the mocking arch of one eyebrow. "I'm just… tired, I think, and I'm probably getting a cold…"

"I don't get colds," she said softly, and he swallowed, remembering her hair hanging around her face, stringy and sticky with blood, knowing that most of the blood on her was her own. Remembered the night before, popping bones back into place after he woke up to find her staring down at him. It made something in his mind flutter excitedly, and he straightened abruptly, eyes widening.

"Do you heal? Is that it?"

And she smiled suddenly, a long little smile that was almost a grin but not quite as she slowly settled beside him, rubbing her palms on her legs and staring at him with a giddy kind of awe. "Yeah," she finally sighed, and gave a little shake of her head, grin becoming grateful. "All this time, I thought it was just me and now there's you. Is that why you came for me? Is that why you… asked me if I was the one?"

"No, I just— I knew I had to save you."

"Why?"

"To save the world," he said cautiously, and was pathetically grateful when she didn't laugh at him.

"What do I have to do with the world?"

"I don't know." Off her wide-eyed slightly annoyed look, he quickly added, "Yet." She gave him another look, not so disbelieving but confused, and he swallowed, unexpectedly panicked she would have him committed. "I do know that I don't think I would be here if it wasn't for you. I think I died."

"I've died before. It's no big deal," she assured him, a slightly brittle chuckle beneath her voice.

"I'm not like you, Claire. I—"

Her father tapped hard on the window, pointing at his watch as Claire gestured vaguely, hopefully.

It seemed to work, because he nodded and turned away, a big shadow hiding them from anyone who might want to peer into Peter's cell. It left Claire staring at him expectantly, patiently, one eyebrow lifted.

"This, uh... this healing thing is kind of new for me."

And he could see the gears in her head moving, saw the way her eyes flew wide open and she stared at him even harder, stunned. "You didn't know that you were gonna heal when you dove off the building?"

"No," and he wasn't sure why he felt like child about to be sent to time-out. "That's kinda stupid, huh?"

But she smiled again, that same smile that was almost a grin but not completely, and shook her head at him as if he was being an idiot. "No," she finally sighed, "no, it's not."

And her father knocked on the glass again, hard.

Jerking a thumb over her shoulder with a sheepish grin, she stood hastily, shaking her head and blushing furiously. "He wants to get home," she sighed, and he nodded, watching as she tilted her head back towards her father, lips twitching. "I think he's more scared than I am," she laughed, and he nodded even more, jaw aching from his stupid grin, watching as she made her way towards the door being unlocked and opened for her.

"You're totally my hero," she assured him with a last sincere grin, and then she was gone, leaving him alone in an empty cell with his bag of cough drops and his migraine— and no longer feeling quite as alone as he had a few hours before.

-

**Rural Utah**

Jessica Sanders was pissed.

While not a new phenomenon, the depths of it now was something she had never felt before.

Stupid little idiot Niki, leaving Micah defenseless; stupid Niki, leaving her helpless, leaving them both helpless.

Wherever she was (and Jessica didn't know where she was, not really, not when she wasn't walking and talking and breathing and eating), she felt the cool weight of handcuffs around her wrists, the feel of her fingers being pressed deep into ink and then flat onto something. She was being booked, arrested, for doing what she had to do, and it was Niki's fault, fucking Niki, too stupid to understand how the world worked.

Jessica thought of all the things that could happen to Niki in jail, and seethed quietly, silently.

Jessica thought of all the things that could happen to Micah, and shuddered softly, viciously, almost painfully.

Jessica didn't let herself think about his wounded arm, the devastated look on his young face as he stared up at her.

It was one of the few completely clear things that Jessica had, Micah's baby weight in her arms after all that pain, fingers curling against her skin, breath soft and steady against the spot just above her right breast. It had been real and raw in its intensity, settling where she was, reaching her where she had restlessly waited for something, anything, to give her a reason to be. The moment was never gone, it never wavered, and it was there even when everything else faded into nothing, even when Niki was a shadow in the dark and she felt fingers digging into her neck.

Jessica hated those moments, and hated Niki for them, but even then, there was Micah, warm and soft and helpless.

Needing her, because God knew Niki was too fucking useless to take care of him herself.

And now here they were, stuck in a little box where people could poke her and prod her, and while she raged and tore at the place where she found herself caught and tangled, she was helpless. She had worn herself out, she realized now, keeping Niki in the background and this was the aftermath of it, too damn tired to really put up a fight now that Niki had finally grown herself a fucking spine.

Jessica Sanders did the only thing she could, the only thing available to her— she started working out an escape plan.

Niki could only keep her quiet for so long, even with that shiny new spine of hers.

-

**Odessa, Texas **

What had started as a semi-okay albeit roller coaster of a day was no longer anything resembling that.

It took three times to do it, her stupid hands were shaking that hard but she finally succeeded, folding herself up and counting the rings desperately before she heard the click and his voice, easing the worst of the panic filling her. Dad would take care of her, he'd come home and take care of her and protect her and tell her it would be fine and that she had no reason to feel this terrified in an empty house.

But the house wasn't supposed to be empty, and Claire felt like there was supposed to be some kind of crappy scary music playing in the background— "Tell me you remember. Y—you remember what I told you? Last night. Don't you? You remember what we talked about?"

Claire realized how crazy she probably sounded, but couldn't care too much.

"Of course I do. What's going on?"

He sounded like Dad, real Dad, the one who refused to let her out of the house when her jeans hung too low or her top didn't cover her completely and not the heavy-voiced stranger who had told that he knew she could jump off an oil rig and walk away fine. Whatever else might be going on, she realized, he would always be Dad; he'd always make sure she looked "presentable," whatever that meant. "You said that there were people who wanted to hurt me. I think they got to Zach and Lyle. They don't remember anything. It's like it never happened. I don't know what to do."

"Where are you?"

"I'm at home. Where's Mom? Where's— where's Lyle?" The house was quiet around her, and while she once would have loved it for the privacy, now it left her alone with thoughts of Jackie Wilcox and whatever it was that had happened to Lyle and Zach.

"Just stay where you are. I'll be right there. I love you, Claire. You're gonna be okay." It sounded like her Dad, just her Dad, and she exhaled, biting the inside of one cheek, wondering how long it would take for him to get there.

"Okay," she finally mumbled, and forced herself to hang up, forced herself to take a deep breath and calm down and wait until Dad got home.

Claire looked up by accident and finally saw him, a big guy with deep eyes staring down at her, and she moved in the next heartbeat, panic kicking in as she launched to her feet and made a frantic run for it. She thought, for a moment, that she had it, and then he caught her, a palm clamping hard across her mouth as she shrieked, another arm locking her back against his chest. She kicked out once, twice, and then only shrieked harder when it slammed the door shut, and, oh, God, she didn't _want_ to think about Brody right now, not right now—

She clawed at his hand, tried to dig her nails into his skin and tear but he was holding her like she was a rag doll, like she didn't weight anything and it wasn't fair, why couldn't she get super-strength or something, something better than this?! And she kept thinking of Brody and that was the worst as she struggled, throat raw from the screams that nobody even heard—"I work for your father."

And Claire felt something relax inside her even as she tried not to let it, thinking of Dad always catching her as she tried to go out, pulling her back and telling her to go change because she didn't look "presentable" and it was so stupid, to think of that right now with some guy holding her helpless. "He sent me here to make you forget. Like he sent me to your friend— and your brother— and to your mother so many times…"

Dad, Dad, _Daddy_… "He'll be here soon, expecting that ... you won't remember anything. But it is very important that you do. Tell me, Claire. Can you keep... a secret?" The last was said softly, breath ruffling the hair at the back of her neck, but she went fully still, eyes wide, feeling herself loosen in his hold and suddenly realized he wasn't holding her as tightly anymore.

Claire nodded weakly, felt his palm ease off her mouth— and listened because there was nothing else to do.

-

Peter had seen the blonde twice through the glass, seen her glance his way and smile pleasantly.

The cheerleader was okay, seemed fine, so he clung to that as he waited, deciding that the discomfort of a tiny jail cell was completely worth it because, well, he had saved the cheerleader. He ached all over, though, and he wondered if maybe he hadn't healed as well as he thought he had, it hurt that much— his entire body, especially his skull, as if too much was trying to fit in at once.

The thought of popping several aspirin and falling into his own bed was, perhaps, the most glorious thing he'd ever imagined… nice cool sheets and a cold dark room, and complete quiet that would maybe help his head stop feeling like it was going to shatter into pieces… that's what he needed, a lot of sleep, it would make everything better.

Peter took another breath and let it out slowly (even breathing was beginning to hurt) and looked up just in time to see the blonde woman coming back, looking tired but pleased. Sitting up a bit more, he jerked in surprise at the sight of his mother at her side, already meeting his eyes even with the distance between them.

His mother, unlike the blonde woman named Tracy, did not look at all pleased.

After a brief moment in which Peter gave serious consideration to hiding under the cot, a consideration he dismissed with the thought of sleeping in his own bed, he forced himself to his feet and leaned against the wall by the door, closing his eyes to catch his breath and calm down.

By the time he managed to open his eyes again, the door was being opened and his mother was talking to him, the blonde woman studying him with a small smile that he couldn't decipher even if he wanted to. "Told you I'd take care of him," she chuckled but his mother only made a short noise in her throat, holding his chin and turning his head to stare at him hard.

"Have you slept?"

"Um, a bit, but…" and he shook his head, although he wasn't sure if he was shaking his head in an attempt not to think about the dream or as an actual answer to his mother's sharp question.

"I'll take that as a no," she murmured unhappily, and he flashed a tiny smile, the best he could manage with his body beginning to tremble slightly. "You should have slept," she snapped, and carefully led him out of the cell, jerking her head to stare hard at the blonde woman. "You should have made sure he got some sleep, he'd be feeling better by now."

"I'll sleep when I get home—"

"You'll sleep as soon as you get out to the car, and on the plane, and then at home and you will not get out of bed until I tell you that you can."

"Where's Nathan?"

"He's handling some business right now, so I came to get you," and his mother had the tone of someone who was getting irritated with being asked questions. There was something else about it, about how she said it, that seemed off but he was so tired and his head hurt so much, so much worse than any of the headaches he could remember having ever before in his life.

"Okay," he finally sighed as he mother led him through the police station. "Okay, I think you're right…"

"Of course I'm right, I'm your mother," and they finally left the jail, stepping out into the night. The sudden fresh air wrenched him a bit more awake, allowed him to take a breath that didn't hurt his chest and he moved more steadily, only slowly becoming aware of the fact that the blonde woman was holding onto his other arm.

"I can't believe Nathan isn't here…"

"Your brother's busy, just like your mother said," Tracy smiled slightly, and reached out to brush his hair back with a maternal frown at the offending bangs. "You look horrible with that hair," she added but he could only nod carefully, enjoying the air coming into his lungs. "After a good sleep and a few days rest, you'll be right as rain." She paused, quirked a lip into what seemed to be a sincere little grin. "Whatever that means, I've never been sure."

He grinned pleasantly, stupidly, and she smirked a bit more in answer, as if he was doing something funny and not realizing it. "Stay," she chuckled, and he nodded and obeyed silently, feeling oddly but satisfyingly disjointed as he watched his mother and the blonde woman back away a few steps, trying to figure out what he had been so worried about a few minutes before as he watched them start speaking.

He'd saved the cheerleader; she was fine, right as rain, whatever that meant…

But there was something else, and the realization that there was something else caused a sharp twist in his brain, leaving him frowning as he struggled to figure out what it was, what it was he had forgotten. Isaac, something to do with Isaac, or… something…?

He had a sudden flash of red behind his eyes, and his heart jerked suddenly, twisted with a sudden understanding.

The bomb, the one Isaac had painted… the bomb…

How had he forgotten the bomb?

The happy disjointed feeling was gone, replaced with something cold and tight inside him, left him shaking as he snapped his head around, searching for any sign of Nathan and only spotting his mother, speaking quietly with the blonde woman. She looked upset, pale with something he couldn't decipher, but— "Mom?"

His mother didn't look at him, just held up one palm in a silent order that he had seen before and he rocked back on his heels, stung and startled, trying to remember everything he had needed to tell someone, everything the bomb that Isaac had painted. "There's a bomb," he started slowly, and then frowned, realizing he couldn't hear his voice.

There was a heavy noise, something that sounded unnervingly like his own heartbeat, too loud and too fast in his ears.

Was he having a stroke?

"Oh" he breathed shakily, and reached out for something to get his balance but found nothing, hands groping at empty air as he swayed and struggled to breathe, thinking of Isaacs paintings and the one with the bomb, the one that had affected him the same way the images of the cheerleader had, a gut-deep wrenching that meant _something_, he was sure of it because anything that felt like that had to _mean something_.

"There's a—"

The two women suddenly looked over at him, and he realized he had just yelled the words, realized it as the ground shifted violently beneath him. He took one step back but the ground moved faster, throwing him back, flinging him to the concrete with enough force that something exploded behind (beneath?) his eyes, a sudden flare of color he couldn't name.

The disjointed feeling was back but for a heartbeat, he was aware of hands grabbing his face, fingers digging into his skin and someone calling his name, frightened orders to listen to… someone, although he couldn't for the life of him attach a name to a face or even a face to the voice…

There was color, and echoes of voices… and he tasted Scotch…

And that heavy noise in his ears finally went quiet.

* * *

_End Part I_


	3. Surprise

_Title: Surprise (Chaos Theory 2/14)  
Rating: PG-13 (language)  
Beta: **gidgetzb** and **dreamingwriter** - they make me look good, seriously, and any mistakes here are completely mine!  
Pairing: Peter/Claire (building up the connection), and a few minor others  
Characters: Dude, seriously, think clowns in a clown car, okay?  
Timeline: Follows "__Beneath__," includes dialogue from some episodes - AU as of "Fallout"  
Disclaimer: Nope, not mine. _

_Teaser: Angela's never been a fan of surprises._

-

**Angela Petrelli  
Paris, France - Sixteen Years Ago **

_"What in the world are we supposed to do with her?" _

"I don't know, give her to someone."

"You haven't exactly given us any warning—"

But the younger woman snorted, and continued to furiously brush her hair, tugging it hard into some kind of painful-looking knot at the back of her neck. "There are probably all kinds of people who'd love a little girl. You're probably just not looking hard enough."

The maternal part of Angela couldn't help but feel slightly warm at the child sleeping just a few feet away, little breaths making her fuzzy pink blanket rise and fall slowly.

The rest of her, though, was descending into a mix of fury and panic.

Mind scrambling to find a way out of this, Angela awkwardly gave the child a comforting palm to the back, eyes settled on the blonde woman now stuffing her clothes into her bag. "Should you really be on your feet already?" she asked, irritated by her own worry, but the blonde woman ignored her, completely focused on her packing.

Unnerved, unprepared for the surprise that had been sprung on her, Angela glanced back down at the newborn, took the little shape in with raised eyebrows and a tiny frown. The baby was surprisingly small, a slight lump of wrinkled skin and tightly fisted little hands, eyes scrunched closed.

She hadn't woken up since Angela had stepped into the room nearly an hour before and it was, perhaps, the only thing in Angela's favor at the moment, that she didn't have to comfort a wailing baby.

"You really think nobody is going to be suspicious of this?"

"You really think I don't have a plan, learning from you?" and the look the blonde gave her was impossible to ignore, the slightest hint of a smirk darkening her gaze and twisting her lips. She looked her age, Angela decided, and it was a rare thing— she was aging better than the rest of them, but still, the usual bright glitter in her eyes was dim.

That, Angela was sure, had more to do with the sleeping baby in the bassinet than anything else.

"Her father is going to figure it out eventually."

"He trusts me."

"He won't after he finds out about this."

The blonde woman paused in mid-packing, hesitated, licking her lips and staring hard down at her possessions. She looked small suddenly, small and too helpless, and Angela disliked it after all the years the younger woman had spent becoming stronger than she had once been. "I know what I'm doing."

"Like you knew what you were doing when you got yourself knocked up?"

"Says the woman with an irritating little ten year old at home? You know, the one who jumps off stairs because he thinks he can fly, and runs around wearing that stupid red towel like a cape— that child waiting for you at home?"

"I've always told you to do as I say, not as I do."

"I didn't set out to get pregnant, if you'd like to know, but now that I've had her, I need to get rid of her."

"You could have just not had her—"

"Just get rid of her," the blonde woman blurted, the sudden way her voice rose to a pitch making Angela hesitate, pursing her lips.

It was a plea and a desperate one at that, but Angela was too flustered now to worry about it.

Instead, she watched unhappily as her old friend finally shrugged into her coat, closing it and tying it with a vicious jerk that made Angela wince slightly. She grabbed up her bag and crammed her feet into her shoes, stepping forward to look down into the bassinet with an emotionless glance. "You could take her home with you," Angela suggested, and the blonde woman shot her a chilly glance, lips quirked into a slightly brittle frown.

"Now's not the time for jokes."

"I'm not joking."

There was a long silence, the blonde woman staring down at the baby silently, that tiny frown on her face and something bleak in her eyes. Angela didn't know everything about her life before she had joined their ever-expanding little circle, but she knew enough to put the rest of it together, knew enough to be completely sure of why her friend was acting so edgy right now.

"You could raise her," she whispered, and watched the way the blonde woman licked her lips, fluttered her fingers awkwardly at her sides and shook her head the smallest bit. "She's cute, probably has your eyes, already looks just like you and her father—"

"I'm not you; I'm not going to spend my life wiping noses and kissing boo-boos, Angela."

"You did once."

And the blonde woman froze, tilted her head back and stared at Angela with a bleak kind of self-awareness. "No, I didn't," she finally said flatly, and turned away from the child, eyes hard and lips tight in a smile that wasn't a true smile. "Do whatever you want with her; I really don't care."

And she walked away, strode out of the hospital room and never glanced back.

It left Angela to stare down at the sleeping newborn, a fragile new life suddenly dropped into her own.

Jesus, she hated surprises. 

-

**Manhattan, New York - Present  
**

Angela Petrelli had decided to stop smoking some years before.

Occasionally, however, she dug a pack out.

The night her youngest son finally got back to New York, a silent body in a hospital bed, Angela lit up a cigarette on the roof of the hospital, grimacing at the effect it had on her.

A nerve-wracking two days of preparations to get him back home (as far away from Texas as she could get away with) and he was still gone, only the barest flicker of movement beneath an eyelid promising her that her unhappy suspicions were right. Sometimes a finger twitched as well, but only when she was near him, never when anyone else was watching.

Wasn't that always how life was?

Peter had been one of the truly big surprises in her life— after years of certainty that she didn't want anymore children, there he'd been, a dark-eyed baby boy who peered up at her and knew her. She hadn't expected him, hadn't been prepared for him, and by the time she had realized what he really was, what he knew with those dark eyes of his, she had already loved him.

And now—

There were only a few people in her life that Angela truly let herself care for, truly let herself accept even if they didn't always deserve it. Whether or not her acceptance was a good thing, she still wasn't sure, but she was who she is, even if some around her didn't realize it… or like it if they did.

And there were, she had quickly discovered, even fewer who actually knew her.

Her husband had been one of those few, her fragile husband with his haunted eyes and rough voice, but he had turned from her long before he physically left her. Closed his eyes to her and pretended that he didn't really see her, as if disregarding what she was could keep her from being what she was. She still wasn't sure if she had forgiven him for his forced ignorance but she knew that she still cried during the worst moments of silence in the nights.

Linderman was another one, possibly the only person in the world to understand it the way she did.

For a long time, the blonde woman had been a name on this mental list, had a place in Angela's heart, a strange foster sister among the chaos. And while she still had some of Angela's respect (a shared devotion to Linderman kept that last connection from being splintered) she had long since lost Angela's trust. Her old friend was becoming unstable, uncontrollable, and this latest little stunt was enough to start a steady ache in the back of her skull.

Decades of planning, of trust, and it was all suddenly breaking down when they needed it the most.

She'd somehow become weak over the years, had come to depend entirely too much on those she trusted, those she shared her secrets with and this was the result, the bitter sting of betrayal cutting deep into her. To add insult to injury, her old friend had proceeded to abandon her outside that damn police station, leave Angela to get her son breathing again because he had stopped. Deserted her as if she was nothing, left her there to panic as she realized what was happening, why Peter was staring up at her and not seeing her.

Angela had gotten weak, had grown to trust somebody other than herself, and this was the result.

"I hate you," she whispered finally (she felt like angry child, a spoiled little girl that had lost her favorite toy) and stamped her cigarette out beneath her shoe with more force than was actually needed.

And then she went back into the hospital to see if Peter had come back to her yet.

-

**Odessa, Texas **

They had lost Eden— jewel-eyed, graceful Eden, who had made a new life for herself.

When he'd gone into the room after the guards and stared at the body, though, Mr. Bennet hadn't seen Eden.

All he'd been able to see for a heartbeat (a long, horrible nightmare of a heartbeat) was bloody blonde hair and blank green eyes staring up at him, Claire's body limp at his feet. Claire and Eden couldn't be more different— Eden had been tall and slim, nothing like Claire, and yet it had been a firm image, an unshakable snapshot that burned itself into his mind.

Four days since his mind had created the image and it was still there, a cold spot in his thoughts.

It was easier to focus on a psychopath in a white cell than it was to think about the blonde woman, easier to comprehend the little watchmaker that had lost his mind because of some inferiority complex than it was to think about the woman that Claire got that look of determination from.

He worried about Sandra, forgetting her days, but it was Claire that woke him up every night in a cold sweat.

Brave Claire, with her green eyes and blonde hair that was just a little bit darker than her mother's.

In a matter of days, his entire world had tilted, fractured with a sudden paralyzing panic, bringing back the one time he'd met Claire's mother, realized who she was and that she had no real grasp of who he was. It had been a nerve-wracking week, the one he'd spent with Claire's mother, and while he'd been a good liar before, he'd been a better one when he came home after that trip.

Ironic, perhaps, that Clair's mother had helped to hone his ability to bend the truth as well as he did now.

That experience hadn't prepared him for this, though, for what the sight of her had done to him when he'd glanced up and found her staring at him in that police station. He hadn't seen her since that day, hadn't had any luck in finding any sign of her, but there was no doubt in his mind that now she knew.

Knew who Claire was, knew what family had gotten her daughter sixteen years before.

How she knew, he couldn't figure out, but there it was, a brutal truth that he couldn't deny.

Mr. Bennet wasn't sure what it meant, wasn't sure what was going to happen, but he knew what he needed to do, grateful that he had someone he could trust in his corner, an ally that he could depend on.

He added Claire's mother silently to the list of people he needed to protect Claire from, and started planning.

The fact that Claire seemed too unnerved by the gruesome things she couldn't remember to leave the house made things easier on him, made it simpler to balance the sudden way everything around him seemed to be coming undone. It was all buckling under the unexpected pressure of a blonde woman in her fifties with no past and a smile like broken glass, falling apart at the seams in a way that left him scrambling for foundation.

Claire had no urge to go out, though, so he was grateful for his blessings.

"Want some more?" he asked, gesturing down at the pan that held the remainder of the bacon, but Claire just shook her head, eyes focused on her almost empty plate. "Are you sure?" he prodded, and she finally looked up, giving him a 'if I say something, I mean it' look.

It was enough of a Claire look that he chuckled and set the pan to the side, quietly relieved.

She'd been off since the Haitian had wiped her memory but he'd seen it before over the years, the same absent-minded glances that Sandra would send him as she frowned to herself. Exhaling quietly, sleepless nights leaving a steady ache in his temples, he glanced at her lightly and hesitated as he watched her flutter her fingers across the tabletop, a determined look on her young face as she gazed down at her plate.

Unsettled, he moved closer, dropping a palm to her shoulder and feeling her jump beneath it, head snapping back to study him with wide green eyes. Smiling slightly, hoping it was comforting, he tucked a strand of blonde hair from her face, brushed a thumb across her cheek. "Are you okay?"

"What?"

Mr. Bennet dropped his hand to hers, stilling the restless movements as he peered at her from behind his glasses, and took her in carefully. "Is something the matter?"

"I'm going to steal Lyle's X-Box," she said flatly, pulling her hand out of his and dropping it into her lap as she pushed her plate away with the other, making a face. "And then I'm going to finish off the last of the ice cream when Lyle leaves for practice, with the chocolate syrup that he wanted for tonight," she added with a defiance that made his lips twitch in amusement even as he found himself shifting awkwardly under her gaze, unnerved and not sure why.

"If you want to talk—" he started but she just shook her head, twisting to her feet and smiling thinly, looking pale and small, not like herself. It was understandable, though, and one of the things he couldn't control, how the town would handle her experience the night of Homecoming. He watched her shuffle across the kitchen, the ears on her bunny slippers flopping a bit with each step. "Claire?"

"I'm fine," she assured him, offering him a brittle but sincere smile that eased something inside him the smallest bit, loosened as he smiled slightly back in response, and watched silently as she trudged up the stairs and disappeared. It left him to process and plan in an attempt to get control of the situation again.

Which he was doing when his cell phone suddenly went off, buzzing angrily in a way that he didn't try to ignore.

He flipped it open, and he didn't even manage a word before Thompson's sharp voice greeted his ears, cutting with a dark humor that only Thompson seemed to possess. "The telepath's going to be a problem."

"He's been handled—"

"Not very well, Bennet," he chuckled and Mr. Bennet paused, stilled, before he finally frowned as he headed to the back door, pushing it open and closing it behind him after he stepped out. "I understand you've got your hands full with the watch guy but you're usually more capable than this."

"I don't understand."

"He's bringing in the Feds, him and Hanson," he said flatly and there was no humor in his voice, nothing but a quiet force that Mr. Bennet had learned to recognize over the years. "You need to handle this, Bennet. Handle it better than you handled Parkman, especially considering who he is."

He hesitated for a long heartbeat, aware of the fact that Claire was safe for the time being and aware of the fact that she wasn't, not really. She wanted to know her real family, seemed to become more obsessed about it as time went by, and he had no doubt that she would eventually see right through the facade he had set up with Hank and Lisa if she hadn't already. It was just a matter of time, and if her mother stepped forward first—

"I'll take care of it," he finally exhaled, feeling truly torn for the first time in ages.

"Good to know— Oh, and Bennet?"

"Yes?"

"Don't make me get involved."

No, Mr. Bennet decided as he silently hung up and swallowed roughly; no, he didn't want that.

-

**Women's Correctional Facility, Nevada **

Jessica had found that she responded the most strongly to stress, especially Niki's stress.

It was like coming back to life when it hit her, a rush of heat that seared away the nothingness she found herself trapped in. It was a tightening inside her, fractured pieces clicking back into place like a well-oiled gun, leaving her sharp-smiled and graceful in a way that Niki could never be.

Other things pulled her out, but nothing felt the way stress did, not even fear, Niki's constant companion.

Niki was stressed and getting worse and Jessica felt it, felt the flex of it above her (that was the only word for it, the only way she had of explaining it) where she sulked silently and struggled to put together a plan to get them out of this. She could just break herself out, she was strong enough and smart enough, but it would be a short-term escape and while it wasn't a happy understanding, it was something she'd been forced to accept after just a few hours in here.

What Jessica needed was a real escape, one that wouldn't be snatched away if she slipped up.

Luckily, subtlety was Jessica's strong point.

Niki didn't have subtlety, couldn't use it and didn't understand it, and it was a weakness that left them exposed.

Jessica didn't know much, acted on instinct and emotion, but she was aware of some things, remembered things that Niki couldn't or didn't want to remember. She didn't know the physics of it, or even what she actually was, but she knew with complete certainty that there was only one person she could turn to now. She wouldn't be able to trust him but he was fond of her, liked her despite what she was capable of.

Jessica was completely fine with being found useful.

Niki and her newfound spine, however, were severely hampering her ability to be useful.

It was the only true problem with sharing a body, she had found, the fact that only one of them could be there at once, She was aware of everything, even if it was a dim awareness buried in shadows and wrapped in lies, but when Niki was awake she was powerless, a scattering of consciousness in the back of Niki's mind, an unformed existence. It was exhausting, draining, but it only gave her more motivation to get control and keep it, tuck Niki some place where she would be safe and where Jessica could protect her.

But Jessica was creative, always had been.

Creativity, she had found, bred survival.

-

**Manhattan, New York – Twenty Years Ago **

_Daniel Linderman adored Peter. _

While it didn't come as a surprise to Angela, it amused her greatly, especially since the feeling was mutual.

It also gave her a few hours of blessed freedom from Peter's tendency to follow her around the house—Linderman was almost frighteningly good with children, far better than she was, and while Nathan had always given him a cold shoulder, Peter would be ecstatic for days before he came for a visit. He seemed to be one of the few people in the world who didn't mind Peter's exhausting penchant to cling to anyone he cared about. Nathan put up with it, and she could deal with it (she loved him that much) but Linderman seemed to be the only one who truly enjoyed it.

It was strangely heartwarming.

"Go, faster—faster, faster!"

Loud, too, she found.

Angela looked up from her reading just in time to spot Linderman running through the front room, Peter clinging to his back tightly, arms looped around his neck and bouncing to the tune that Linderman hummed, something that sounded suspiciously like an extra fast version of the theme from Bonanza. It was only a lifetime of control that kept her from collapsing into giggles as they noticed her watching them, and they turned toward her, wicked grins blooming across their faces.

As it was, she watched with lips that twitched as the two males headed for her, stepping into the adjoining room.

"Your child is insane, Angela." Though his tone was solemn, Linderman was anything but, his eyes alit with boyish glee and face animated with something delightful that she'd never gotten to enjoy as a child. "You've got yourself a tiny terror," he added, and then chuckled shamelessly when Peter made an annoyed expression and dug his knees hard into Linderman's sides.

"You bring out the worst in him."

Peter peered curiously at his mother over Linderman's shoulder, arms still wrapped tightly around his neck even as Linderman pulled out the free chair and turned, dropping the boy with a graceful sort of carelessness into the seat. "Sit there and let me catch my breath," he said immediately when Peter went to get down again, and wagged a finger in the boy's face until he obeyed, flopping back exhaustedly with a pleased sigh.

"You two look like you've had fun."

"We did," Peter chirped, swinging his legs as he watched Linderman, clearly counting down the minutes until they went back to their play. "We can keep having fun," he added, and gave Linderman an extremely impressive pout.

Pouting never worked on them but it worked on Linderman and even as Angela watched, her friend grimaced, heart in his eyes as he gnawed a lip with a nervousness that took years off him. "Maybe you should have a snack first," he finally sighed, and the slight glance he shifted to her made her straighten, watching him even as he added an impossible-to-miss hint about cookies for Peter.

He wanted to speak to her alone, in private—

When the boy had finally bounded away, promising to bring something back for his playmate, Angela focused on Linderman, watched as his face went cool and his back went straight, impressed despite herself. She'd watched him find control over the years and she'd helped in quiet ways herself, in ways that Michael himself had never let himself learn.

For all that Michael had forced him to grow up years before and on the other side of the world, stolen his innocence, Angela had been the one to shape what he had grown up to be.

It was a unique bond, frightening at times and yet steady, sure.

Angela would still be able to count on him when everything else broke down.

"What?"

"How is he?"

She considered playing dumb but thought better of it; he knew her far too well for that, he'd just laugh at her.

"We think he'll be fine," she finally sighed, flipping a few of the pages she was glancing through at the moment, her husband's furious scrawl growing more and more hysterical as he neared the end of this journal. "We'll be able to bring him home this time, but he's getting worse," she admitted slowly, and passed him the journal, watching his face as he read. "Nathan's getting extremely upset about it, wants to know why he can't see him."

"He's nineteen—"

"He shouldn't see his father like this," she interjected quickly, grateful when he shrugged as if he didn't care and simply went back to reading the nonsense that filled the journal. Well, it was nonsense to them but not to Michael, that she knew but still, some of the things he wrote were ridiculous. "Besides, he needs to focus on college, not fret about this."

"That boy's too grown up for his age," Linderman snorted, passing her the book and leaning back with a grimace, a neat pop matching his movements. "Any day now he's going to wake up gray."

Angela didn't let herself think too much about the fact that, when he had been Nathan's age, he'd had already had blood on his hands, Michael's sins staining Linderman's young heart.

"Peter keeps him young—"

"Peter would keep anyone young," he snickered, eyes warm even as she thoughtfully underlined a passage about walking through fire, coming out without being burned. It was difficult to read her husband's notes, the things he saw, and she was never sure if this was how he saw them, as scattered images made of shadows and colors, or if they only became nonsense when he tried to explain them.

Either way, they gave her headaches.

"You spoil him more than we do."

"He's a brilliant child."

Angela smirked and shook her head, fighting back laughter as she picked up her red pen and circled another passage with extra force. "One of these days, you'll get yourself a child and then you won't give a damn about him."

"That's not true, and besides, I'm working on it," he snorted and glared childishly at something behind her head, blue eyes murky with a foolish sort of want. "Even offered to adopt but she won't hear of it…"

"She has her reasons—"

Linderman waved his hand shortly, shrugging and dismissing it, changing the subject even as something wounded flickered behind his eyes. He wasn't a boy anymore but he was aging well and spent entirely too much of his time staring longingly at every child he passed on the street. She had always wanted children herself, but only one and Michael, she knew, had never wanted any children at all, although she still didn't know why.

Daniel Linderman, she knew, would happily take an entire flock of them and then turn around and ask for more.

It was the only time she ever saw anything truly innocent in his gaze anymore, when he played with Peter with a glee that bordered on insanity, brought the boy treats and gifts of every kind, spoiled him rotten just on the semi-annual visits he paid to New York.

She and Michael had stolen his virtue and this was how he got it back, as annoying as it sometimes was.

Angela paused as she flipped a page, and frowned at the words in confusion. "What?" Linderman asked, but she only shook her head in bafflement, opening the red pen again and underlining it three times. "What?" he prodded more furiously, and she finally shrugged, still staring at the words in fascination.

"What in the world is an exploding man?" 

-

**Manhattan, New York – Present **

Nathan understood control, understood why his mother depended on it as much as she did.

Angela Petrelli could be sharp or funny, wonderful and even loving but the real Angela Petrelli (whoever she had been before his father had gone so quiet) was not a woman that would have easily survived in the real world. The real Angela Petrelli, he knew, was a woman who would have been destroyed within a few years of being born into the brutal honesty of life.

He could count on one hand the number of times he'd seen the real her, watched her eyes go soft and her mouth tremble with a fragile kind of hopelessness that made his heart quietly ache in response even though he didn't want it to. He saw Peter in those rare and unsettling moments; saw what his soft-hearted brother would look like when he finally saw the realities of the world, when he finally accepted them.

One day, a part of him was sure, Peter would—and Nathan couldn't help but hate the thought of it.

Right now, though, his brother was silent as death and almost as still, looking even smaller than he actually was in his hospital bed. Just the sight of his brother like this was unsettling, brought back every moment of panic he'd felt just a little while before, the day his hopeless dreamer of a brother had dropped himself right off that building.

"I should have been there."

"You were needed here."

He raised his head from his silent study of his brother, found his mother polishing the handful of photo frames she had set up by the bed in the days since they had brought Peter back to New York. "I should have been with you," he said quietly, pushing Peter's ridiculous hair back from his face for the hundredth time. "If you had let me come with you—"

"Nathan."

It wasn't just a name but an order, and he exhaled silently, watching as his mother settled back down into her seat, flipping open her novel and going back to her reading, glasses perched elegantly on her nose. For all intents and purposes, she seemed to be a pleasant woman past her prime reading a favorite new book, but Nathan wasn't fooled.

Nathan thought of the dreams he had when growing up, before Peter had been born, dreams of taking off up into the sky when he felt the world's pressure trying to crush him, flying away from his mother's fragile-eyed secrets. His father's private grief had been worse, though, and he remembered his father every morning and every night, thought of his father on a level that probably wasn't healthy.

He had never known what it was his father always seemed to be grieving for, still couldn't figure it out.

So Nathan obsessed over it, and tried to keep Peter from seeing it even though that was useless, seeing as how his brother seemed to see everything—he tried to track down every one of the friends that had always seemed to surround his father, people that seemed to have disappeared off the face of the planet. Linderman was there, though, and while other things from his childhood were strangely blurry, nothing about Linderman was, every memory of Michael Petrelli's confidante etched in perfect detail in his memory.

Linderman was the only connection he had left to track and yet, it was something.

But Nathan still didn't know what his father had been grieving for.

-

**Odessa Texas**

Claire didn't kid herself.

Alone and overwhelmed, she could do nothing at the moment except keep her new secret from her father.

Mom was being ditzy (and maybe that was why Mom was ditzy sometimes when it made no sense, maybe because Dad was sending in some weird guy to steal her memories and wouldn't that make anybody ditzy?) and she was unwilling to bring Lyle back into it and Zach was giving her the cold shoulder even across the phone because he didn't even know her anymore…

Claire couldn't trust her father—she didn't know what he was capable of, didn't know him.

That, possibly, was what hurt the most.

It left her alone, all by herself, and feeling smaller than she ever had in her life.

Claire didn't even have the option of calling Peter Petrelli in some hope of figuring out why this was all happening, what the hell she had to do with saving the world, why she mattered the way he said she did.

The guy that had saved her, the guy that had fallen off that auditorium even though he didn't know he'd survive, the guy that would have willingly died for her, the guy that actually had died for her— that guy was apparently some kind of knock-off Kennedy or something in New York and, to her great and utter distress, he seemed to have fallen into some kind of coma before even leaving Texas.

All she knew was what she had seen on the news, a five second segment and nothing else.

Claire was indestructible but she was still helpless, and had no idea what she could do about it.

It didn't leave her in the best of moods, as her father picked up—she had no real grasp of why the man who worked for her father had let her keep her memories and while he had given her an excuse (said that she needed to keep them to stay safe) she had no idea what he had actually meant. Was he working against her father, some kind of double-agent; did he need her to remember, to have some kind of ally when he went after her father? Was he trying to keep her safe, like he said, or was he just as much of a liar as her father?

Did it have anything to do with that guy that had killed Jackie?

Claire had always seen paranoia as something to avoid, a reason for a straightjacket but now she knew better, felt like some fragile baby bird that had been thrown out of the nest to fend for herself—just because you were paranoid didn't mean you didn't have an actual reason to be, right?

Alone and overwhelmed, she knew she couldn't hide in her room with her bunny slippers forever.

-

The blonde woman hadn't thought, after she saw the painting and realized with a spike of uncontrollable emotion inside her who the girl in the painting was, that it would be this simple to track her child down.

It hadn't been truly easy and yet it had been far less exhausting than she'd expected it to be. She'd expected months of long searches and careful questions and instead there had been that train wreck, a blessing in disguise when she realized who the brave hero of a girl must have been, the only girl it could have been.

Jackie Wilcox hadn't been adopted, but fresh-faced Claire Bennet had been adopted, the small girl that had perfectly matched the image on the canvas, a girl with her eyes but not her height. If she wasn't so pissed off about it, she'd have laughed at the insanity of it all, that Bennet should be the one that had been taking care of her daughter for the last decade and a half, him and his whacked-out dog-obsessed big-haired wife.

Finding Claire had been relatively easy, considering everything that had been involved in keeping the girl secret.

The hard part, she knew, would be actually making the girl trust her—

Angela had taught her many things over the years, not just how to lie but also how to mean it when she did, how to use her emotions and not let her emotions use her. Angela's teachings had gone far beyond teaching a nervous young housewife how to mingle with every social class known to man and yet it was surprising, how powerful simple societal knowledge could be in the correct situation.

Even with that, however, she had found herself at a loss as to how she would actually get the girl.

It had been stupid to show herself and scare Bennet like that; all it would do was make him more paranoid and yet, even as she regretted it, she savored it, the way his eyes had flared wide behind his geeky glasses, the way his face had drained of all color for just a few seconds. She'd been fond of him when she'd met him, passed on some of the things she'd learned in a long life of truthful lies and watched his own instinct for deception bloom before she had left him to his new partner, that young man from Haiti, the one that had always unnerved her so badly.

Bennet may have softened over the years, the fact that he was working so hard to keep her safe was proof of that, but his softening was at the same time a sharpening of his already quick intelligence, the reason he had started doing the work he did in the first place— there was no way in hell he would hand Claire over and simply turn away.

In her mind, it was pure luck, having such an easy lure to use to bring Claire to her.

All she would need were a bunch of fresh flowers.

-

**Manhattan, New York – Six Months Ago**

Angela's husband wasn't aging well.

He'd gone gray too early in life, stress taking its toll in ways too numerous to count, but the last several years had seemed to truly drain him, exhaust him, leave his brittle eyes hollow and his rough voice empty. He'd always seemed to bear the weight of the world on his shoulders, even before she'd realized what he knew, what he could do. The pressure had only seemed to increase right along with his age. He had started to go quiet finally, would sit and stare at things only he could see with that bleak look in those dark eyes of his.

He had that look now as he sat and cradled his Scotch in large hands, knuckles white as he focused on some spot on the wall across the room. He knew she was there, he always did, but he paid her no mind, dark eyes impossibly scattered as he kept every drop of his attention on the things only he could see.

Angela worried about him, fretted over him, even as a tiny part of her hated him for it, for being so… fragile.

"It's almost time to leave."

His eyelids fluttered the smallest bit, his fingers flexed around the glass, but he didn't respond in any other way.

She exhaled quietly and wished the sight of him sitting and staring like this didn't cut at her the way it did. She stepped closer and brushed her fingers awkwardly across his shoulder, something jerking painfully inside when he still didn't react to her, kept on ignoring her. "It's time to leave," she repeated, and although he finally moved, it was just to reach up and push her palm off his shoulder and withdraw from her in ways that made her breath catch in her throat.

It had never been this hard to pull him back before, not like it had been these last few months.

"Michael—"

He jerked his head up to stare at her, blankly at first and then with a slow shake of his head, stiffening in his seat and grimacing when his back cracked in protest. "What?" he asked, and she almost couldn't hear him, his voice was so uneven, so worn with disuse. "What do you need?"

"It's time to leave."

"I'm busy—" he started, but she dug her fingers into his shoulder, something like panic flaring inside her.

"We have to go," she snapped raggedly, but he shrugged her hand off and shook his head before taking a slow swallow of his Scotch.

"I have more important things to do."

"More important than Peter's graduation party?" she demanded, irritated and not sure why.

"Yes," he stated flatly, and went back to staring at that spot on the wall, all of his attention on something only he could see. She had gotten used to it over the years, the way he withdrew into himself, went quiet and still but it was approaching levels she simply didn't know how to handle. She had once been able to reach him, pull him back, but she couldn't do either anymore, not without causing him to bite her head off in frustration.

"Peter wants to see you—"

"I'm busy," and he had the tone he rarely had with her, as if she no longer existed for him.

She'd known there was something breakable in him when she'd first met him, picked up on it the way she had always picked up anything that could be used as a weakness against someone, but it had been a good few years before she'd been sure, put the pieces together with her own suspicions. "Michael, it'll only be a few hours—"

He didn't even respond, and she closed her eyes for a moment and took a breath before slowly letting it out.

She straightened and gritted her teeth before smoothing a palm down her blouse and shrugging as well as she could. "I'll tell Peter you were busy," she finally sighed but his only response was a short nod, the barest bob of his head as he took another sip of his Scotch and went back to ignoring her, falling back into his silence.

It would be the last time he ignored her.

-

**Manhattan, New York – Present**

Peter's eyelids flickered. 

The movements were so slight, so minute that only a trained eye could have seen them.

Angela knew what to look for, though.

"Maybe you should go home."

Nathan was a good son, did everything he was supposed to with a false sincerity he had seemingly been born with; a false sincerity that she suspected came completely from her. It was still real though, raw, and it was Peter that brought it out the most, Nathan's biggest weakness. He sat restlessly just a few feet away and watched as she absently brushed those stupid bangs away from Peter's face, and she could easily make out the sheen of fear in his eyes, the quiet panic that left his voice rough.

"I just got here," she sighed, and watched Peter's face, saw his eyelids flicker violently before he went still again.

"You've been here since we got him home."

"I'll go home when he wakes up."

"I should have been there—"

Angela stopped listening, sick and tired of the same words over and over again, and cursed the blonde woman with silent but heartfelt intensity. There'd been the sickening sound of a body hitting the ground, not just dropping but throwing himself back and she remembered it too clearly, the one other time she'd seen it, another dark-eyed man with the same look of bleak shock on his face.

Her son had fallen five stories and walked away fine and because of what she knew, the secrets she knew, she believed it, that he had died and come back—

But it didn't change the fact that he wasn't there now, he was somewhere else, somewhere she couldn't reach him.

"It's been a week and a half."

"He's still breathing on his own," she snapped, and he must have picked up on her tone because he went quiet. He awkwardly began to fiddle with the flowers that the Deveaux girl had bought and looked like the restless boy he had once been, the restless boy who had looked up at the sky like an eagle with broken wings. He'd learned to hide the look well, she had made sure of that, but she saw it always, a quiet shadow in the depths of his eyes, his father's heavy unhappy gaze. "As long as he's breathing on his own," she continued quietly, "we need to worry about helping him recover, not fret about what might happen."

Angela still had Peter's bloody shirt, the one he'd been wearing in that cell and it was a silent testimony; proof that her suspicions had been correct. The girl was a healer, not any surprise considering who she came from, and Peter had healed from something truly horrendous—but when she searched him for wounds where there'd been the most blood, there were none, not the barest hint of a bruise to be found.

Angela had no idea what this meant, not in the long run, but she knew what it meant now— Angela had experience.

This was something they hadn't seen and hadn't been prepared for, her son's apparent ability to die and come back. Even past the guttural terror, her control willed out, insisted that his body would recover the same way from this - whatever this was. It was a quiet certainty, a silent conviction, she just needed to be patient for her son.

Even so, she could have used Charles now, her secret weapon when Michael had been at his worst.

Gentle, brave Charles, the only one who could understand Michael.

"They want to give him another MRI."

"I know," she exhaled and wanted to shake Nathan for his restless movements, the tiny ways he shifted that she was aware of, even across the room. It even irritated her when Peter did it, but it was downright aggravating when Nathan gave in and started wriggling around like some kind of nervous animal. "Stop fidgeting," she snapped and she closed her eyes at her own spike of frustration, a jolt of exhausted emotion deep inside.

Angela hated surprises and her son dying and coming back to life, that was a big one, one she never could have expected— not after all she had done to keep that girl out of their lives without losing what that girl could give her. Thankfully, she had experience with dealing with big surprises.

It was the only thing in her favor at the moment, so she took it gladly.

-

**Las Vegas, Nevada **

DL Hawkins had several choices at hand, one of which included running to Louisiana with Micah.

He had family there, but this was home, where he had first fallen in love with Niki.

This was where they had gotten married, where they had bought themselves a house and created a life. Where they had Micah.

It had taken more than a week after the ordeal in Utah for things to calm enough for he and Micah to finally head back into the house, stunned to find not a single door broken or photo frame crooked. Three hours later when Linderman's assistant came by for the money, she'd explained with a slight smirk that it was the least Mr. Linderman could do, keep their house in good shape for when they finally came back to it.

Only Daniel Linderman, DL had found, could be so comforting and so disturbing at the same time.

It had taken everything he had not to go to him, ask for a way to get Niki out, but no— he couldn't drag them all in deeper, not after everything they had just survived. Even so, even as Micah began to glare at him as if he wasn't doing enough and stopped talking to him with any warmth, he waited for Linderman to pull something or ask for something anyway.

It couldn't be this easy, wasn't possible and yet, it seemed to be.

DL had always been suspicious by nature, always been good at looking over his shoulder—he'd supported his mother when his father had walked out on them and worked his hardest to keep a roof over their heads and food on the table. It wasn't easy, however, especially not when Linderman had always been there, needing him to handle special jobs— jobs that DL had never thought about too deeply.

It was how he had met Niki in the first place, doing work for Linderman and the irony wasn't lost on him, that he had only found Niki because of Linderman's constant presence in his life—Linderman has always been there it seemed, a disturbingly steady presence— so constant he'd long since stopped hoping to escape the older man's shadow.

No, he decided after Linderman's assistant had left he and Micah in peace—no, it couldn't be this easy.

DL Hawkins, realist that he was, waited for the next horrible thing to happen.

As fate would have it, he only had to wait three more days.

-

**Manhattan, New York - Nineteen Years Ago **

_The young Haitian could admit it— he was intimidated. _

He was stronger than the intimidation, however.

The two men who paid for his plane ticket and escorted him from his home to this sprawling place didn't speak except to inform him that he was to be completely respectful, confirming his suspicions that they knew how to use the pistols they carried with slightly mocking smiles. They seemed to like him well enough though, since they brought him a milkshake at one point, and even got him two extra cherries.

He didn't speak to them— not because he couldn't but because he knew full well words didn't matter.

Whomever they were loyal to, it was clear they wouldn't be swayed by a sixteen-year-old boy's pleas to let him go.

He'd tried, early on, to use his power on one of them but nothing had happened and he'd been left with a migraine for two days, one that grew to be so bad that they'd been forced to rent a hotel and allow him to rest for a day and recover. They didn't seem to be able to do anything but he was helpless against them all the same.

After a week of this traveling, six days of movement and one day of rest, they seemed to finally reach their destination, an unnervingly beautiful mansion with shining glass windows, a silent testimony to someone with not just power but money.

They were going to kill him, slaughter him, maybe because of what he could do…

So this would be his end, a murdered boy that no one would remember, that no one would mourn.

He hoped he would at least manage to die with dignity as he hefted his bag more heavily across his shoulders and trailed after the two men up the steps, startled when one dropped a fatherly palm to his head. An odd paternal pat to the head followed as the door was slammed shut and locked behind him. "Like we said," the same man sighed in French, leaning forward to stare at him hard. "Be respectful, and use common sense— nothing impresses her more."

And for the first time since the two men had snuck into his home and taken him hostage, he wondered if he wasn't actually going to be killed.

Down a hall with shining floors and through several doors (the house seemed to be completely empty, no sign of anybody despite his glances around) and finally through one last door, a massive one made of glittering glass in a dark metal frame. The house was beautiful, he had to admit and even bigger on the inside than it had seemed to be from the outside.

He glanced at the older woman sitting at a glass table and froze, eyes flying wide open.

This was a surprise.

She was small, seemed to be about the age his father had been when he had died, dark hair worn short and dressed in a silk robe that she appeared to be completely comfortable in. She was beautiful in a way few people were, tand here was something quietly powerful in her gaze as she flicked a glance over at him, cocked one eyebrow and took him in with sharp eyes.

"I thought you'd be taller."

And she spoke perfect French.

He looked over his shoulder cautiously but found the two men were now gone, the glass door was closed behind them and the curtains were pulled, effectively shutting him in here with a woman who smiled like some kind of wolf. When he looked back at her, she was striking a match against a box and grinned when it ignited. "They're horrible," she admitted as she raised the match to the cigarette dangling from her mouth, her accent flawless but slightly muffled as the cigarette finally caught and flared bright red. "I'm trying to stop, my husband hates them, but they help with some of the stress."

When all he did was stand and stare at her with widened eyes, she narrowed her own in a slight glare.

"I know you can talk, so don't play mute."

Somehow, he knew she did—although he was at a loss as to how.

"I don't know who you are."

"Of course you don't," she chuckled as she pulled out the chair to her side and patted it. "Sit and relax a little bit, you've clearly had a long week."

"Because those men kidnapped me, those men who work for you—"

"It was better them than others."

He jerked his head toward her and waited, but she didn't say anything, just continued playing her game of Solitaire with the pack of cards in front of her. His father had always liked the game, had kept a pack of cards with him wherever he went and had gone over that cliff with them tucked in his pocket.

"My father liked that game—"

"I knew your father a long time ago," she exhaled bluntly, and reached out to give his necklace a quick jerk as her lips twitched in a strangely sincere smile. "He taught me the truth about who I was, and I taught him this game." He sat and gaped at her, startled into a true silence, she rolled her eyes and looked away again, she seemed uneasy with his shock. "They won't dare touch you now; not now that you're with me."

"Who are they?"

"None of your business," she stated flatly, and set a tall glass of some kind of juice in front of him. "I've already purchased an apartment for you, and you'll be staying with a friend of mine, learning how to use that lovely power of yours without driving yourself insane in the process."

"I still don't know who you are—" he protested, confusion leaving him panicked, feeling younger than he had in years and helpless in a way he never had before, not since he had come to understand his power. He was locked out here with this woman who had known his father, this woman who knew what he could do and had sent men to get him that he couldn't use his power on.

"For now, I'm just Mrs. Petrelli," she sighed, and pushed the glass toward him again. "Now drink your damn juice, you're still growing and you're too skinny."

He glanced at the glass, heart beating fast, and then glanced at the woman again only to find her completely focused on her game of Solitaire. There were noises all around, living people working around them, and those men were gone, the ones he couldn't use his power on. He hadn't felt any real fear when he had been on his way here, not anything more than a momentary panic, but he felt it now, a sudden jerk in his middle of true apprehension.

She knew what he could do— and she didn't want any protection, didn't want anyone to protect her.

"I want to know who you are," he said slowly, and he couldn't help but be proud of the way his voice didn't waver in the slightest. "You say my father knew you, but he never mentioned you, never talked about anyone…"

And she simply stared at him, gazed at him with a tiny little grin on her face, as if he were doing something that she found hysterical. When a few ashes drifted down onto one of her cards, she jerked in surprise, grimacing as she tapped it against the edge of the table, allowing more of the fine particles to fall to the ground beneath them.

"I want an answer—"

"If I told you, you wouldn't believe it," and there was not the slightest bit of humor in her face.

It was an odd line, should have felt like a joke and yet he froze at the words, at the tone, at the faint, helpless look in her eyes. There was something like fear there, the barest glimpse of understanding beneath everything else in her gaze. He'd seen that look in his father's eyes at the very end, that same sheen of horrified self-awareness and it left him still and silent.

Left him, somehow, calm.

When she dropped her gaze and went back to her game, he saw that her hands were shaking the smallest bit.

Too dazed to be scared, calm in a way he shouldn't have been, he did what she said and drank his juice.

-

**Manhattan, New York – Present **

It had been thirteen days since her son had passed out, and Angela was quickly coming undone.

"Those aren't good for you, Angela."

Mid-way through digging out another cigarette, the matriarch glanced up from the carton and studied the man standing a few feet away with a deceptively calm look on his face. He'd learned it from her, the ability to look like anything except what he really was, and he didn't even seem to realize he was wearing those masks most of the time.

She couldn't help but feel a twinge of pride at it, at how loyal he was.

Angela remembered that twinge and dropped her gaze against it, irritated at herself for the way her heart wavered, for the way her control weakened in remembrance of her— of that strange bond they'd formed. Out of all twelve of them, they had been the only women, the two deceptively delicate-looking wives with secrets of their own. Angela had been an only child, a lonely child, and it was after having her own children that she'd finally found an equal, a match, in some fragile-eyed young woman who crashed into their lives and so easily fit into their group.

And this was how it ended, in utter betrayal.

"Shouldn't you be in Texas?" she demanded, and went back to trying to strike the match.

Her hands were trembling though, long nights of panic taking their toll on her old bones.

When had she become this old?

When had she become this weak, this fragile?

"There's nothing else I can do," he said flatly, and when he came forward to strike the match for her, light her cigarette for her, she didn't have the strength to be irritated at being treated like an old lady. "The girl knows everything you wanted her to know and nothing else." He paused as he blew out the match and dropped it carelessly to the ground. "We both know that if her mother wants her, I can't stop her."

The Haitian couldn't handle the blonde woman, not like she could—he could block her power easily enough, basic mental talent that it was, but she had more weapons than her own power and Angela knew how good the younger woman was with her beloved .45, an unerring aim that Angela had seen a handful of times over the years.

No, the Haitian couldn't handle the blonde woman, but she could and that was what he didn't say, not aloud.

She was old, past sixty and getting older every day, but she was still who she was and she could still—

"I want you back in Texas," she muttered, and didn't look him in the eyes.

"I came to check on you, to make sure you were okay."

Angela thought of Nathan, her firstborn, growing increasingly desperate, looking more and more like her dead husband every day that Peter was in that hospital bed. The first time she'd truly looked at Nathan, she'd seen her own weakness looking back at her, a soft but fierce heart and she'd worked so hard to protect him from it, to save him from it. She'd always thought that he would be the one she would be able to depend on in the end, but that was before she'd had Peter, before he'd surprised her the way he had.

Before she'd looked at the great surprise of her life and had seen her own weakness twisted into strength.

Peter had her eyes and her husband's crooked smile, and he had been such a surprise.

Angela glanced at the Haitian, took him in and remembered the nervous boy that had sipped his juice, the boy she'd allowed to see the real her. He knew her, was one of the few who did, and it was a sign of her weakness, that she had allowed him to know her, see her and understand her. He was loyal to her, cared about her even, had worried enough to come and check on her because he knew how terrified she was.

Her husband had known her before he'd closed his eyes to her, before he'd left her the way he had.

Her old friend had known her, her green-eyed friend she had shared herself with, the younger woman that had grown to be her weakness. It had been nice to be looked up to like that, a role model for somebody that had stared at Angela with an awed kind of delight.

It had been nice, to play the role of an older sister.

"Angela?"

Linderman knew her; she still had someone who saw the world like she did, the horrors of it.

Angela still had Linderman, and that would have to be enough.

"It's Mrs. Petrelli," she snapped, and stamped out her cigarette with more force than was needed. "I want you back in Texas, watching that girl, like I told you." She paused and swallowed, wanted to look at him but didn't let herself. "I don't keep you to light my cigarettes."

And she went back down into the damn hospital to see if Peter had come back to her yet.

-

**Odessa, Texas **

Claire wondered if she could go to school in her bunny slippers.

They had been her constant companion for the last two weeks, peering up at her as she fretted over how she was going to lie to her liar of a father and dwelled on the fact that the one person she might have been able to trust was in some coma.

She couldn't even freak out over her nightmares of Jackie, because she wasn't supposed to remember.

She felt vaguely disjointed, as if something inside her had come loose and had yet to slip back into place; it felt the same as it did when some bone hadn't settled just right or when she hadn't popped a joint back in the correct way after a long fall. It was familiar but not comfortable, left her twitchy, restless, staring down at her bunny slippers and waiting for them to reveal the secrets of the universe.

So far the bunny slippers, while comfortable, had yet to share any secrets they may have known.

_Can you keep a secret?_

Claire closed her eyes and pressed a palm to her head, regretting her choice in mental wording. She let out her breath in a long sigh, hating how sore her throat suddenly felt. She had always prided herself on her ability to not come completely undone at anything that may set her off but all she felt like doing now was finding someone to scream at until they helped her find a way to make her life make sense again.

Claire didn't like her life not making sense—it didn't feel real when it didn't make sense, felt as if someone could just take it away without any real trouble at all.

"I can't deal with this," she mumbled into the heel of her hand, her eyes so tightly scrunched shut that she saw stars.

"Claire?"

For a heartbeat, her panic was so intense it felt like that Homecoming all over again, she was bloody and rushing through the halls. Shocked into silence, she dropped her hand and found her father (but he wasn't her father, not really) peering at her worriedly, confused innocence on his face as he pushed his glasses up with one finger.

"What?"

"Are you okay?"

She sat on her bed in her old pajama pants and her bunny slippers and took him in with wide eyes, seeing him for the first time, as a sudden chilling thought pierced her panic, leaving it too still and quiet as it settled inside her.

Where had he gotten her?

He wasn't her father, not really, but she must have had a mother and a father, that was how things worked—

What if he had lied about that, too?

What if they were out there, looking for her?

What if—

Claire knew for a fact that her heart stopped all the time, that she had died often enough and it was almost second nature but it still left her dazed as she felt her heart stutter and stop for just a second, felt the abrupt new thought curl inside her, curl and settle.

_Can you keep a secret?_

What if they _weren't_ looking for her?

Claire had thought a lot about what her life meant over the last two weeks, what other lies her father could have told and yet it was only in that moment, staring up at him, shocked speechless with a sudden wrench of emotion, that it hit her.

What if they weren't looking for her?

What if he had— done something— like what he had done to Lyle and Zach—

_Can you keep a secret? _

"Fine," she said, not sure how she was speaking but sure of herself somehow. "I'm fine," she continued, pulling a teddy bear into her arms and playing with an ear as she smiled slightly up at her father, feeling something painful tighten inside her at the way he smiled back. "I'm just nervous about tomorrow."

"You don't have to be."

"I know, but… you know…"

"You don't have to be," he said more firmly and when he reached out to smooth a large palm across her face, brush hair from her cheek, it took everything she had not to flinch back, picturing some couple somewhere that might not even know she existed, more people that her father had lied to.

Claire had done it in the years since she had found out she had been adopted, imagined who her parents may have been, maybe some young couple just out of high school or maybe a single mother who couldn't have taken care of her. She'd always pictured some beautiful blonde woman as her mother, some graceful woman she could see some of herself in, see her own nose or chin or even her own eyes staring back at her.

_Can you keep a secret?_

"I'm fine," she said shortly, stunned at how calm her own voice sounded, and she pulled away slightly, leaning back and scooting up the bed until her back rested against the headboard. "I'm thinking about wearing my bunny slippers back, though."

"I don't think your mother would let you get away that." He paused, lips twitching and then cocked an eyebrow playfully, looking for all the world like he was about to share some great secret with her. "We could always sneak them to school under her nose, though… maybe hide them in your backpack?"

Claire almost threw her bear at him, but resisted— she couldn't throw it but she didn't want to hold it anymore either.

It felt like it was burning her.

"Maybe," she finally smiled, and settled for putting the bear in her lap, ignoring the way it peered up at her cheerfully. "I should sleep," she added a long moment later and tilted her head back to meet his gaze and found him smiling down at her with a vaguely relieved stare that made her palms feel sweaty. "What?"

"I love you."

Claire didn't believe him and for a moment she panicked but then she found herself grinning nervously, the big stupid grin that was always giving her away when she felt all emotional and didn't want to show it. It was a shock, the way she felt her face settle into it, the way she tilted her head back the way she would have if she hadn't known he was a liar who worked with creepy guys who could steal memories.

"I love you, too."

A relieved look lit up his face again and he bent and pressed a kiss to her forehead as she closed her mouth and gritted her teeth, a quick peck that once would have made the world feel better and now only made her feel ill.

She sat awkwardly and watched him leave and click the door shut behind him.

Only after his footsteps faded away, only after she could hear him talking in quiet murmurs to her mom downstairs, did she throw the bear violently across the room, watching it strike the wall before it fell to the floor in a way that was too reminiscent of her own slam against the school wall two weeks before.

She watched it for a moment, unnerved, but there was no blood and it didn't get up and pop any bones into place, so—

_Tell me, Claire, can you keep… a secret?_

"Yes," she murmured, and watched her bunny slippers peer up at her like they knew the secrets of the universe.

-

_Notes: So concludes the second part of the epic - also, the last semi-smaller part, heh. From here on out, the updates are gonna be pretty freaking huge, so, yeah, I will not say no to nice big amounts of feedback, heh... come on, give me a little bit of feedback, eh?_

_Make me a happy girl, eh?_


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